“Why—no,” said the lady, smiling. “But if my nephew hadn’t lost his automobile he would have taken me. Oh, dear! Now I shall have to ride behind Jonas all the time.”
“You really don’t call this riding, do you, ma’am?” asked the irrepressible Agnes.
The woman laughed. She liked Agnes Kenway from the first, as almost everybody who met her did.
“I’m not riding fast just now, and that’s a fact,” she said, nodding her bonnet with its many bows. “Nor does Jonas take me over the roads very rapidly at his very best pace.”
Neale O’Neil had got slowly out of the car and now walked around to the head of the fat brown pony. The pony had blue eyes, and they were very mild. But he seemed to have no idea of going on and getting himself and his mistress out of the way of the automobile. Maybe he did not like automobiles.
“You see, my nephew bought a car and we let Jonas kick up his heels in the paddock. Oh! he’s lively enough when he wants to be—Jonas, I mean. But my nephew’s car was stolen day before yesterday—and he’s worried almost to death about it, poor man.”
“Oh!” cried Ruth, “who is your nephew, Madam?”
“Why, Philip Collinger is my nephew. He’s the county surveyor, you know. A very bright young man—if I do say it. But not bright enough to keep from having his auto stolen,” she added, ruefully.
Just then Agnes, who had been watching Neale O’Neil, called:
“What are you doing to that pony, Neale?”